


hands off

by touchstarved



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Dominant Reader, F/M, Filth, Handcuffs, No beta we fall like Annie, No seriously that's it that's the whole plot, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Reader flirts poorly w Levi for 3 days and eventually it works, Reader has one (1) method of escape and that method is just seducing the guards, Reader-Insert, Smut, Submissive Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), con artist reader, i'm so sorry y'all, just absolute trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstarved/pseuds/touchstarved
Summary: "I was thinking that I might have been off before.” You keep your voice casual as you lean forward—slowly, carefully. You don’t want to scare him off. Not yet. “About the handcuffs.”He turns a page, but doesn’t say anything. You press onward.“I not saying I don’t think I look good in them, don’t get me wrong. I stand by that. But I also think that maybe, just maybe, they’d look even better on you.” You cock your head, offering him your most coquettish smile as you reach down with one hand to finger the cufflinks on his sleeve. “Care to trade?”
Relationships: Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Levi/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 120





	hands off

**Author's Note:**

> not me writing this in one sitting after a months-long dry spell only for ao3 to IMMEDIATELY crash
> 
> UPDATE: also lol i originally posted this under a new account bc i was toying with the idea of abandoning this account, but then i realized i did not want to do that! so if you’re wondering why the username on this changed, that’s why lol

“I know we just met, but I’ve got to ask—” You lean back and try to nonchalantly fold your arms behind your neck, immediately abandoning the attempt when you wack yourself in the cheek with one of the chains hanging from your wrists. You shake your head with a wince. “Sorry. Anyway. Who exactly did you tick off to get saddled with babysitting duty?”

You’ve always been a good pickpocket, practically since you could walk. A few decades later, you’re one of the most notorious con artists within any of the three walls, taking equal amounts of pride in your lock-picking skills, your deceptively strong roundhouse kick, and your finely-tuned flirtations. To be clear, you’re not the best of your kind. Far from it. That went out the window with the whole “notorious“ bit—after all, the most successful criminals never get caught. But at least you can say that, for every occasion on which you have been taken into custody, you’ve been able to make a spectacular escape.

Nearly twenty of them, to be exact.

Each time, the Military Police have gotten more desperate. They’ve tried assigning you more guards. More experienced guards. More isolated cells, more convoluted bindings, more, more, more—if anything, it’s a pleasant surprise when you find out that, on this particular occasion, they’ve decided to switch things up entirely. The manacles are a bitch, sure, thick and heavy and looped around the leg of a heavy bureau, but the chains are long enough to allow you to walk around the room if you’d like. You’ve even got a proper chair, set up near a window, where you can look out over the fields surrounding the castle. It’s a pretty view.

Of course, you can’t help but think, glancing over at the one—the _only_ —officer assigned to watch you today, the view inside the room isn’t too shabby, either.

Humanity’s strongest soldier is a fair bit different than you would have pictured him. Smaller, for one, and stiffer, too. You’d heard of him, in his pre-military days, back when he was just another Underground scrub known for being handy with a knife. If anything, it’s impressive that you both made it to the surface—him a bit more _legally_ than you, perhaps, but still. By the looks of it, he’s adjusted to life here well. Sitting primly at a desk with a book and a cup of tea before him, his hair glossy and trimmed to a flattering style, not a single crease in his uniform _._

He hasn’t looked at you once.

Not that _that’s_ enough to stop your attempts to sweet talk him. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, it’s as good a past-time as any.

“Maybe you didn’t tick anyone off. Maybe you volunteered—that’s would be the patriotic thing to do, right? Protecting humanity from vandals like me.” You barely manage to stifle a laugh. You can’t help it—it’s just so ridiculous. “You don’t seem very concerned about the whole thing. I guess they didn’t tell you what happened to the last detail assigned to keep an eye on me, did they?”

Silence. You plop back down on your chair with a scowl, arms crossed, and resume staring out the window. Looks like it might take more than your usual bag of tricks to sway this one.

Luckily for you, it’s not as though you have much else to do.

* * *

“I’ve got to say,” you try again the next day, “I’m a little surprised _humanity’s strongest_ would need shackles to keep a prisoner down.”

He’s made decent progress on the book since you saw him last. Or maybe this is a different one. Hard to tell. You shouldn’t be paying attention to things like this, but you can’t help it. You’re _bored._ You’ve never been in custody longer than twenty-four hours. There’s nothing within reach that you can use as a lock pick, and if Captain Short, Dark, and Handsome’s behavior up until this point is any indication, you’re going to have a hell of a time convincing him to let you go.

“Unless it’s just for the visual effect? No judgement if it is. Cuffs are a good look on me.” You tug on the chains playfully. Nothing. He’s stubborn, you’ll give him that. You shift the pitch of your voice from proud to petulant as you strand, crossing the room. “A bit cold, though. I’d much rather have one of your hands around my wrists.”

“Just one?”

_Finally._

His voice is good as his looks: soft but strong, held at a pitch that strums at something deep in your chest. He sounds…well, to tell the truth, he sounds more bored than anything else. But at least he’s responsive. That’s the first hurdle crossed.

“Of course.” You close the distance between you and the corner of his desk, and bend down, trying to catch his eye with a low-lidded gaze and a smile. “That way the other one’s free to wrap around my throat.”

He still doesn’t look at you, but his brows lift a little. You’re hopeful, until he opens his mouth. “Original,” he says dryly, and the smile fades from your lips.

“Oh.” You can’t help the touch of bitterness that enters your tone. Master con you may be, but you still don’t take well to being laughed at. “Right. Silly me. You must get scores of prisoners trying to sleep their way out of here.”

“Unsuccessfully.”

“Obviously. You don’t strike me as the type to take advantage of a damsel in distress.”

“I was only drafted into _babysitting duty_ because none of the useless fucking MP had the balls to do it. I wouldn’t call you a damsel in distress.”

“I can be anything you want me to be. That’s my job.”

_Right now, I’m just trying to figure out exactly what that is._

“Perfect. I want you to be quiet.”

“Anything but that.” You raise your eyebrows at him as you plop down on the desk, legs crossed, hands folded in your lap as delicately as you can manage. He’s even prettier up close, you think, impossibly so, all plush lips and diamond-cut jaw, the scent of him like pine smoke and fresh laundry and earl grey tea. You let your desire bring your voice a touch lower as you continue, “Unless that was a veiled offer to gag me, in which case…” 

He looks up at you, summer storm eyes rippling with disdain.

You curl up back in your corner for the rest of the day.

* * *

That night, as you wash yourself down with soap and water in the pale light of the moon, you can’t stop thinking about it. The way he looked at you as you sat on the desk. How, a moment before those cool, silvery blue eyes fluttered back to his book, you saw something flash across them. Something different.

The wheels in your brain set to turning, taking it all into consideration—the quiet demeanor. The way he took to you lording above him. His comment earlier about your _originality_ , how an offer of submission was so _typical_ from prisoners like you—and it clicks. Oh.

_Oh._

* * *

“I was thinking last night.”

“Congratulations.” He acts as though you aren’t sitting smack in the middle of his desk. He just plops down in his chair with his book, and sets his tea a little further to the right than usual. You’re tempted to knock it over, let it spill. You resist the urge. It’s not that you’re against causing trouble—clearly—but the kind of trouble you have in mind for today is of an entirely different sort.

"I was _thinking_ that I might have been off before.” You keep your voice casual as you lean forward—slowly, carefully. You don’t want to scare him off. Not yet. “About the handcuffs.”

He turns a page, but doesn’t say anything. You press onward.

“I not saying I don’t think I look good in them, don’t get me wrong. I stand by that. But I also think that maybe, just maybe, they’d look even better on you.” You cock your head, offering him your most coquettish smile as you reach down with one hand to finger the cufflinks on his sleeve. “Care to trade?”

“That’s your great escape plan?” He tsks. “The Military Police must be doing a shittier job than I thought.”

You feel your lips slip into a pout that _should_ be devastating, if he would only _look_ at you. “I’ll have you know, that particular line has gotten me out of trouble on multiple occasions.”

“How many?”

His words may be cold, but you’re no fool. You see the light dusting of pink across his cheeks, the bobbing of his throat, the way his breath hitches as you slide off his desk to stand directly in front of him.

“Three. And a half.” You bring your shackled hands up below his chin and tilt his face upwards, and the way his pupils dilate at the touch might be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. “Would have been four, but the last guard I tried it on was such a good boy, it didn’t seem fair to run off without giving him a little reward.”

He clears his throat and looks away, his cheeks a brilliant crimson. “You should go back and sit in the corner.”

“What, so I can stare longingly out the window until you leave? No.” You lean back on the desk, hands dropped to your hips. “Besides, the view from here is _much_ more interesting.”

“Give up. You’re not going to find any way out of here, not with those things on. Not in front of me.”

“I’m not _trying_ to find anything. I’m going to relax and wait for a way out to present itself. Why not have a little fun in the meantime?”

“I’m not going to ask you again.” The book, you notice, has fallen between his leg and the edge of the seat, forgotten. His fingers twitch on the armrests, and you know, you just _know_ he’s dying to touch you. He’s resisting the urge, but it’s harder now, it’s taking everything he has, and his resolve is beginning to weaken. You can see it in the crease of his brow, and the set of his jaw, and the pleading edge that enters his voice as he says, “Sit.”

You smirk.

“Now.”

“Fine,” you say, and settle forward onto his lap.

He lets out a moan so quiet, you almost don’t hear it. Almost. Sounds aside, it’s impossible to ignore the quickening of his pulse beneath your hand where it rests over his heart.

You lean forward, draping your arms around his neck, and you can’t help but sigh at the feeling of him between your legs, hot and hard and straining against those crisply pressed dress pants. You nip at his ear, feeling him shudder beneath you, before beginning a line of kisses from his jaw down to that finely-wrought clavicle. Even though this is all to lure him in, you can’t help but feel as though you are the one being overwhelmed by it all, by the feel of him, the heat, the scent of tea and fresh linen clouding your senses as you bury your face in his neck. You cant your hips against his once, twice, and on the third time you feel his hands fly to your waist. You pause, waiting to see if he pulls you closer or pushes you away.

When you feel his grip on you tighten, your smirk turns into a full-fledged grin. “No,” you mutter against his jaw, “I don’t think so.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you take his hands in yours and move them back to where they were on the armrests before.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He doesn’t try to pull his hands away, tense as they are. Your lips are barely an inch apart, and your mouth falls open a bit at the dual pleasure of hearing him speak so close to you while simultaneously feeling the vibrations of his voice rumble through his chest where it’s pressed against yours.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” You cock your head. “I only sat down. I did as you asked, and now I think it’s my turn to set a few rules.”

He may still be trying to put up a show of anger, but he’s made no moves to resist you thus far and he’s hard as a rock against your thigh, and really, you’re laughing at yourself for not realizing it sooner. Because of course, of _course_ Captain Levi Ackerman, humanity’s strongest soldier, would be the type to absolutely _melt_ in the face of orders.

“Rule number one: you keep your hands there until I give you permission otherwise.” You pat his hands before releasing them. When you pull back so that you’re no longer sitting on top of him, your body aches at the loss of contact, but you keep your voice and gaze steady as you continue, “Rule two: you keep your eyes on me.”

You sink to your knees slowly, running your hands up and down his thighs with firm, consistent pressure.

“The keys aren’t in my pockets.”

“Does it look like I’m trying to escape?” One of his hands lifts towards you, and you click your tongue at him. “Ah, ah. Rule number one. You get free reign over your hands when I get free reign over mine.”

“Shitty rule. You can move yours a hell of a lot more than I can.”

You look up at him with narrowed eyes. “Let’s even the playing field then, shall we?” You yank on the chains to give yourself a little extra slack, until you have just enough to cross your wrists behind your back. You wish you could see his face when you lean forward to undo his belt buckle with your teeth, but hey, you can’t deny that the low, needy moan he lets slip is pretty fucking fantastic all on its own. Makes the clang of metal against your teeth almost worth it. And sure enough, after you’ve gotten it done, after you’ve pulled the whole damn belt free and looked back up at him, batting your eyes and asking, “Better?” with the leather end of the belt held tight between your teeth?

The sight of him fighting to keep himself restrained, fingers tight on chair, lips slightly parted, flushed all the way down to his throat?

It’s as good a power rush as any.

You allow yourself a momentary break from your no-hands rule to toss the belt behind you, and to undo his pants more completely. He springs free, long and thick and _pretty_ , already hard and leaking and flushed red from base to tip. When you lick your lips, it isn’t just for show. “You really don’t have any bad angles, do you?” you coo, dipping forward to lick a stripe up along the underside as you press your arms back behind you. “Pretty boy.”

He’s obedient, you’ve got to admit. All that military discipline is serving him well: hands forced still, keeping his focus on you even as you tease him mercilessly with sweet words and long, languid swirls of your tongue. By the time you lean forward and take him down your throat in earnest, his knuckles on the seat are practically white, and he’s got just the prettiest blush, and oh—are those tears he’s blinking back?

“What’s wrong?” You pull back briefly, letting him see you lick your lips with a smile. “You want to touch me?”

He’s trying not to say anything. You take him in again—just the tip this time—and suck, hard, and he moans again, but again, you get the sense that he’s holding back. You pull back again and reach up to place one of your hands over his, running your thumb back and forth across his knuckles. “I’ll give you a third rule: I don’t want you quiet. If something feels good, you tell me. If you want to moan, do it. And if you want to touch me…” You cock your head. “You’re going to have to beg.”

He freezes at that, then shakes his head. “I don’t beg.”

“Not yet.” You pull your hand off his and lick it, getting your palm sloppy as you can before you wrap it around the base, adding slightly more pressure in response to his moans. “I’d love to let you touch me, but I can’t do that until you tell me that’s what you want.”

He squares his jaw. For a moment you think he’s going to roll his eyes, but then he remembers the second rule. He sighs. You preen inwardly. “I want to touch you,” he mutters.

“You want to touch me?”

He makes that noise again, an irritated _tch_ through clenched teeth. “I said it, didn’t I?”

“You want to touch me how? Like this?” You run your free hand back through your hair, fisting it at the base. “Like this?” The same hand runs down your neck, down your chest, tracing a circle around your breast, your nipples clearly peaked through the thin fabric of your top. Your words are beginning to take on a breathy edge; as much as you’ve been the one teasing him this whole time, you’re burning up just as much as he is. You let your hand wander lower as you continue to stroke him slowly, down, further, dipping between the apex of your thighs—

“Anywhere.” The word bursts out, and he looks ashamed for a split second before the desire takes over. “Anywhere—however you want me to. Whatever you want.”

“Anywhere I want? I like the sound of that.” You lick your lips again. “But I don’t know if I’d call that begging. Close, but not quite. There’s just one word missing.”

He scowls. “Brat.”

“That’s not it.” You add your mouth back to the mix, working him with your hand and your tongue in tandem, and you wait until you feel him on the edge before pulling back with a wet _pop._ This time, the expression in his eyes is nothing short of murderous. “How about we try that again?”

“If you don’t—“

“That doesn’t sound right, either.” This time, you hold nothing back, and the moan that is pulled from his chest, deep and throaty and desperate, has you pressing your thighs together in hopes of getting some friction of your own. “I’ll give you one more chance. You want to touch me…”

“Please.” All the moaning has left his voice hoarse, and you throb at the rough, rasping sound of it. “Please. Shit, _please_ , just let me—“

It’s enough. God, it’s more than enough—you got what you wanted, and it’s set something off inside of you, and it’s only a matter of seconds before you are back on his lap, your hands in his hair and your lips pressed against his, swallowing the end of his plea. You grind yourself against him with more abandon than before, letting out a moan of your own at the feeling of his hands on your thighs, and you join him there, your hands working together in a desperate bid to make work of your underwear and skirt, to unbutton both of your shirts so that you might press your chest to his. When you have him lined up against your entrance at last, you pause.

“Do you want this?” you murmur against his lips.

You’re rewarded with a growl, and his fingers pressing more deeply into your hips, and, unprompted, the sweetest, sweetest sound: “Please.”

You repay him in kind by sinking down in one long, slow, fluid motion that has both of you sighing. You can’t help but let your forehead fall forward to press against his. “So good,” you whimper, feeling him twitch inside you at the praise. “You feel so good, filling me up— _fuck._ “

When you start moving—slowly, still, achingly slow—he pushes you back gently with a hand on your sternum, baring your body to him so that he can watch you move atop him, so that he can run his hands up and down the length of your torso, squeeze your ass, press hungry, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. One hand dips lower, and your eyes flutter shut with anticipation before he pauses. “Can I touch you here?” You meet his gaze again, and the defiant spark in his eyes sets you ablaze as he cocks his head and asks, “Please?”

You nod before you’re able to form words, breathless as you’ve become. “Yes. Yes—“ You kiss him again, full on the mouth, wet and sloppy and desperate as he circles your clit. Already you’re close. It’s making your tongue loose, and you continue to shower him with praise, until you feel yourself right on the edge and pull back, pull off with a hand on his chest. He looks almost as distressed as you feel, until he realizes you’re back on your knees with your mouth and both hands on his cock, your rhythm breaking only a moment for you to grab one of his hands and push it into your hair. He doesn’t put an inordinate amount of pressure on your head—he merely keeps his hand there, twisting your hair until you moan in pleasure around him, letting you take the lead until you feel him tense, tense, tense below you, and then the release, and you pull back just in time to let him finish on your chest with a smile.

It’s endearing, the way his whole body relaxes afterwards. His hand pulls free from your hair to caress your cheek, his chest rising and falling with the afternoon’s exertions, and you swear you see something like a smile gracing those pretty lips. Easy. Open. A far cry from the stiff-spined, stone-faced captain you met a few days ago.

You stand and crawl back atop him, just long enough to press a kiss to his temple. “Thank you,” you murmur, before pulling back and fixing just enough buttons on your shirt to keep it mostly shut. You yank on your underwear and collect your shoes as you hop over to the window, peering over the edge with only a hint of trepidation. _Two stories, not that bad._

You jump.

* * *

The oxytocin fogs his senses and makes his reflexes hazy, and it’s hard to focus on following you when his pleasure-addled brain is still busy wondering how on Earth you got out. You’re halfway across the field by the time he reaches the window. Running. Barefoot. With ODM gear, he could catch up to you in a few minutes without much trouble.

He watches you go.

Once you’ve disappeared over the slope of the hill, he turns his attention back to the chains, still attached to the bureau. Not broken, but unlocked. And his belt, the buckle depronged and mangled beyond repair, abandoned besides them.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer, I don’t have much (any) experience domming anyone, so if this is unrealistic from that angle, I am so sorry! 
> 
> If this is ooc, please know that it is my first time writing for aot, and I am so sorry (levi’s voice is Very difficult to pin down ahh)! 
> 
> I consulted with a lock-savvy friend of mine and we came to the consensus that no, you most certainly cannot pick a lock with the prong of a belt (especially behind your back while giving head damn), and yet I chose to include it anyway, so uh sorry about that too
> 
> Thank you for reading, if you’ve made it this far! Part 2 is in the works. If you liked this (or having any questions/critiques/etc), please consider leaving a comment letting me know as much, + I will adore you forever! 
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe/healthy/sane in the midst of all of this, and I look forward to seeing you next update <3


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